First I would find my first kiss. I gave it to a boy about my age to hold, and he ran away with it when I wasn't looking. Than I would look for all my stuffed animals that my Dad threw out after the RV was infested by rats, spreading hanta virus and the bubonic plague. I would like to stack the two-first kiss and stuffed animal collection-together, delicately placing a giraffe on top of an orca, and cradling my first kiss in the gentle curve of the orca's side. My stuffed monkeys would be at the top and bottom of the pile, providing figurehead and support in equal measure; cradling my bunny and my bear and my stolen kiss. I would stack them together, all soft things I held so tight to myself that I knew not what to do, when the pressure of my grip flipped them out of my arms, and into those of rats and boys.
Second, I would go looking for my innocence, which I belive I left in a middle-school bathroom, but I would noy pick it up. Instead, I would gaze upon it, noting the curves that light and life and errant drops of piss reflect from, and the sharp edges that I didn't know were there when I still wore it like a one-piece pajama suit.
I would reach it to touch it but stop short, stop before contact is made with my fingertips. Didn't I earn where I am? This school and this world may have ripped this shell off, but I shrugged and twisted while it did, ripping it that much faster. I don't want this back. Didn't I bleed for where I am? I did. I don't want my innocence back.
I don't think I want any more really big concepts back. I want back people that I've lost, both to life and death. I want time back, it not for time itself, but for the things I could have done with it. I want money back, for the same reasons. I want the weather back and the snow and the reasonable heat, I want my trips to New York back. And I don't want anything else back. Aside from my virginity.
And the Aaron Rodgers of my childhood, but that's another matter entirly.